Well first he will order Della to get some rest

Jon dragged a hand over his eyes, the cold of the dream slow to let go. It lingered along his skin, a dull ache that hadn’t warmed yet. Dawn crept through the shutters in thin bands, cutting the chamber into narrow strips and pressing the walls closer.

He shifted and sat up, legs dropping over the side of the bed as the furs slid down around his waist. His gaze went to back Della at the door, already measuring the room, already awake in the way that mattered.

Her stance hadn't wavered through the night—shoulders square beneath the mail, gauntleted hand resting loose on her belt—but the faint sag at her eyelids told a different story, the fire in her gaze banked low.

“Della,” he said, the word scraping out of a half-woken throat, “are you tired?”

She drew herself up, armor settling with a muted rasp. Whatever weariness lingered in her posture vanished behind practiced stillness. “I serve you faithfully, m’lord’s son,” she said, lifting her chin. “If you need me here, I’ll remain.”

Jon stood, the chill of the stone floor seeping into his bare feet as he closed the distance between them. He stopped within arm’s reach, holding her gaze. “That wasn’t my question.”

Della’s eyes shifted, only for a heartbeat, before settling forward again. The mail at her shoulders gave a faint clink as she adjusted, squaring herself as though the motion alone might banish the question.

“I can stand,” she said, too quickly. “I’ve kept worse hours than this.”

Jon didn’t move. He waited, close enough now to notice the way her breath came a little deeper than it should have, the tight hold she kept on her spine.

She tried once more, lifting her chin. “It’s nothing worth remarking on.”

Jon didn’t answer.

The quiet pressed in, broken only by the faint creak of mail as she held herself still. Seconds slipped by, then minutes. Her jaw tightened, then eased. She drew a breath meant to steady her, but it came out slower than she intended, dragging the tension with it. Her shoulders sank a hair’s breadth, the fight going out of them.

“Aye,” she said finally, eyes dropping for the first time. “I’m worn. The night’s been a long one.”

A single nod from Jon closed the matter. “Go sleep,” he said. “Rest until midday. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

Relief flickered across Della’s face before she reined it in. She dipped her head, a small smile lingering as she turned away. The door whispered on its hinges, then settled, leaving the room in the pale hush of morning.

At the basin, Jon tipped the pitcher and let cold water spill over his face. The bite of it swept the dream aside. Droplets traced his jaw and slid down his neck as he scrubbed, then lifted his head and shook the damp from his curls.

Clothing followed in quick order. A clean tunic, then the familiar pull of his jerkin over it, the fit so ingrained it barely registered. Boots came next, laces drawn tight with short, practiced tugs, movements already carrying him forward.

His belt drew snug around the waist. The sword settled at Jon's hip, its weight firm and familiar, answering the shift of his stance as if it belonged there.

The castle still lay quiet at this hour—servants only beginning to stir from their pallets, guards trading yawns as the watch changed. Jon would meet no one in the corridors, answer no questions.

By the door, he stopped, weighing his options the way a hunter read ground for sign, turning each path over before choosing where to place his feet.

The yard pulled at him first. It would be empty now, a wide stretch of stone where steel could be swung hard and fast, where sweat and aching muscle might grind the restlessness out of him and sharpen what the night had dulled.

Beyond that lay the godswood. Red leaves stood watch over a hush deeper than walls, a place to sit beneath the branches and let the whispers tease apart the guilt that still clung from his dreams.

Other paths pressed in on Jon’s thoughts. The stables came first—horses shifting and snorting in their stalls, the comfort of routine waiting there. A brush drawn over a royal destrier’s hide, the steady rasp and warm breath, might pin his mind to something solid and simple.

Then the kennels. Dawn would have the hounds half-awake, whining low, nails scraping stone. Ghost could use the rough press of a pack, even if it meant dogs instead of wolves, bodies colliding in brief, noisy chaos to shake the night loose.

The library rose next in his mind, shelves sagging under the weight of age. Dust and old ink, pages filled with half-forgotten warnings—perhaps something written long ago about voices that lent power, or words that bent the shape of fate.

Higher still stood the maester’s tower, Luwin’s ravens rustling above the castle. A few careful questions might draw out talk of curses or blessings, answers offered without revealing more than Jon meant to share.

Each choice branched ahead of him. Beneath it all, the power stirred, a low hum waiting to ease whichever step he took.